


I've Turned into a Monster

by cantthinkofausername_B_Pike



Series: Summer of Gotham [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 4x18 through 4x21, Angst, Canon Compliant, Excessive Use of Parentheses, F/M, M/M, Summer of Gotham, i made up some effects of the insanity gas because canon is unclear, jeremiah is slowly losing it, jeremiah's crush on bruce (?) is very one-sided, this is the first fic this author has finished in 7 months
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantthinkofausername_B_Pike/pseuds/cantthinkofausername_B_Pike
Summary: As Jerome's insanity gas slowly settles into Jeremiah's mind, he has to try to hold on to himself. But is the gas changing him or just bringing out what was always there? Maybe he and his brother aren't so different after all.Written for Summer of Gotham Week 1: angst





	I've Turned into a Monster

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is kind of confusingly written so let me clear up a couple things: italics are Jeremiah's thoughts. the insanity gas causes him to see everything differently - I picture it as (bear with me) like everything has outlines like a coloring book, but those outlines are sort of transparent and also neon. Feel free to completely ignore this and make up your own idea of it.  
> Title is from Monster by Imagine Dragons because it came up when I shuffled my entire music library. Most of the fic was written to Control by Halsey.

Jeremiah didn’t mean to.

He didn’t know why he opened the box. (Yes, he did.) Or why he didn’t think to wonder on its suspicious arrival and packaging.

Before that day, he hadn’t seen anyone his own age in six years. Before that week, he hadn’t seen anyone except Ecco since he was a child. So when the first person he saw was Bruce Wayne, clever, compassionate, infamous Bruce Wayne, well, what did he think would happen? (It didn’t hurt that Bruce was gorgeous, either.)

As soon as he tore off that purple paper, saw that clown head smiling at him like a creature from his nightmares, he knew. He would never escape his brother.

He couldn’t think what Jerome must have seen up on that stage. What unconscious gesture told him to address the package “From Bruce Wayne.” All he knew was that, even after fifteen years, Jerome still knew him better than he knew himself.  
And what a terrifying thought that was.

As the thick, purple cloud cleared, his skin stung. His eyes burned. He curled up into a ball on the floor and wondered _why would my brother do this to me why now why_. He cried, he prayed, he begged. But no one can reverse time.

Jeremiah’s eyes snapped open to a bunker different than he had ever seen it. Neon afterimages hovered around everything like a color negative overlay that wasn’t quite lined up right. The wall of computers that used to be safety became prison bars. The diagrams of his projects were useless scratches. The newest plans for his renewable generator were a path to the future, the only path. They were the key in a sticky lock. The clown head, still bouncing on its spring, was a savior.

No. That’s not right. Not a savior.

_Jerome set me free._

__

__

_Jerome cursed me._

He shook his head to clear it, and the colors moved with him. This was real. This was destiny. He would not hide away from Gotham. Gotham would hide from him.

_No no that’s him talking that’s Jerome that’s not me-_

Was there ever a difference?

***

The second package, the real package, from Bruce arrived two days later. Two miserable, glorious days. For the first time, Jeremiah had a goal that wasn’t hiding. He hated hiding while his brother painted the town red above him. (His bunker was his safe space, his favorite place.)

Gotham City would become his bunker. The generators would give him that. And he would never have to hide, but he would never have to leave.

He paced among the bright, dull concrete for two days, making the changes to his generator plans. This was everything he was born to do. To cleanse the city in fire and make it in his image. He was saving the city. Saving himself.

When he blinked and the colors faded, he balled up the new designs and burned them. The first model was everything he needed. This new idea would kill millions. And what would it do to him?

He couldn’t keep running from what he was becoming. But he could try.

Bruce hand-delivered the message from Wayne Enterprises. Seeing Bruce on the security feed, so blessedly normal, so completely alien, sent a wave of relief through Jeremiah. He blinked back into reality (Or was his whole life the dream and he the confused dreamer?) and punched the button to allow him in.

“Jeremiah.” Bruce greeted him cautiously, and Jeremiah sensed that he did not know how to proceed any more than he did.

For a moment, they hovered in the doorway, Jeremiah in the bunker and Bruce in the maze, before he remembered to step out of the way and invite his guest in. Bruce looked the same as he had two days before, serious and dark and sane. His hair looked strange now, in a good way. Like he had put product in it. Jeremiah thought it might feel spiky if he touched it, then immediately regretted thinking that.

“What brings you so far out of the city?” Almost as soon as he said it, he wanted to slap himself. Awkward, formal, unnecessary.

Bruce held out a thick envelope. “I wanted to give you the news in person. Wayne Enterprises will fund your generators.” He waited until Jeremiah had started to open the envelope before adding, at a speed that suggested he had rehearsed the question, “Would it be possible for me to assist you on this project? The technology is fascinating.”

Jeremiah smiled hesitantly. “I would like that.” He ignored the colors as they flickered back into existence and reminded him exactly how much he would like that. A friend. A conspirator. (Something more.)

***

The colors didn’t leave for three days. And after that, for three more. Then five. Every time he was himself again, Jeremiah tried to report himself. He and Bruce Wayne spent their days and Wayne Enterprises’ money building bombs, and he was the only one who knew. One day, whoever he had been before Jerome’s gas, the person (fiction) he was desperately trying to hold on to, would be gone. When that happened, there would be no stopping him. The city would become the maze, and Bruce would be at his side, whether friend, prisoner, or partner.

Every time he picked up the phone to call the police, every time he started to say something to Bruce, he stopped himself. Because he was going crazy. (Because he was seeing clearly for the first time.) Because if he reported himself, he would go to Arkham, and he couldn’t go to Arkham. Not after Jerome made it his kingdom. If it didn’t kill him, it would break him. So he stayed quiet, and he provided a meaningless explanation every time Bruce came across something strange in the blueprints. He felt guilty and powerful and he wanted more of it.

And that was on his colorless days.

When the colors came, Jeremiah was free. He didn’t worry about Arkham or struggle with himself about leaving his bunker. He would not fail. Gotham would become his maze, his haven. He didn’t have to worry about Bruce Wayne. He could simply enjoy the feeling in his stomach when Bruce let his eyes linger for a bit too long or stood a bit too close. It felt like how he imagined an airplane taking off would feel. Exhilarating. (The turbulent landing came when he, the real him – but what was real? – realized what he was doing. Waiting to be burned.)

This new him felt too much like Jerome. But they were identical, shouldn’t their minds be as well?

No.

He was not his brother, not a bomb with a short fuse. He was a builder, an engineer, an architect. He always had been.

***

The last time the colors left, Jeremiah could feel his hold slipping. He hated himself, he hated Jerome. He thanked his brother for allowing him to see the world. He was going to stop himself.

Nothing felt quite real that day. He walked to Wayne Manor in a haze, expecting at any minute to wake up. It could have been hours or minutes. The Manor was on the far side of Gotham, but Jeremiah looked up from the sidewalk to see it loom over him. Why was he here? What would he even tell Bruce? What could he tell him? It didn’t matter. The haze that still surrounded his mind was too thick for reason.

He let himself in. Alfred must have forgotten to lock the door – never good in Gotham. Of course, he could have a pass after what he had just been through. What Jeremiah had put him through. (Somewhere, he vaguely felt remorse, but it was quickly swallowed by a blank void.)

_Bruce. Gotham is doomed. It’s my fault. It’s mine. Bruce. You’re my only friend. I’m sorry._

_Also I think I like you._

_Please don’t send me to Arkham._

He never got to say anything. The colors flickered back in with the cold wave of reality. He wasn’t dreaming, he was just too late. (He had been too late the moment he took Alfred, tried to make Bruce see the same way he did.)

Bruce sat on the couch, soft afternoon light falling over him. Most of him was obscured by the girl slowly pulling away from his lips.  
What was this?

An idyllic picture he would never be a part of. Always watching from the shadows. He pulled the gun from his waistband. (When had he put it there?) A smile colder than ice slid across his face as he shot her and walked out.

He would steep Bruce in the dark. He would put him through hell and see him reborn.

If Bruce would not be by his side, he would be his rival. In order to save Gotham, it must first be razed. He and Jerome had been the weapons. (Even there, they had been the same.) Now Bruce would be the savior. Gotham’s Dark Knight.

**Author's Note:**

> I live for validation so comments/kudos are greatly appreciated!


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